A Night Encounter

: A Daughter Of The Sioux

Comforted by abundant food, refreshed and stimulated by more than two or

three enthusiastic toasts to the health of the major the men so loved,

Trooper Kennedy, like a born dragoon and son of the ould sod, bethought

him of the gallant bay that had borne him bravely and with hardly a halt

all the long way from Beecher to Frayne. The field telegraph had indeed

been stretched, but it afforded more fun for the Sioux than aid to the
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outlying posts on the Powder and Little Horn, for it was down ten days

out of twelve. Plodder, lieutenant colonel of infantry commanding at

Beecher, had been badly worried by the ugly demonstrations of the

Indians for ten days past. He was forever seeing in mind's eye the

hideous details of the massacre at Fort Phil Kearny, a few miles further

on around the shoulder of the mountains, planned and carried out by Red

Cloud with such dreadful success in '67. Plodder had strong men at his

back, whom even hordes of painted Sioux could never stampede, but they

were few in number, and there were those ever present helpless,

dependent women and children. His call for aid was natural enough, and

his choice of Kennedy, daring, dashing lad who had learned to ride in

Galway, was the best that could be made. No peril could daunt the

light-hearted fellow, already proud wearer of the medal of honor; but,

duty done, it was Kennedy's creed that the soldier merited reward and

relaxation. If he went to bed at "F" Troop's barracks there would be no

more cakes and ale, no more of the major's good grub and rye. If he went

down to look after the gallant steed he loved--saw to it that Kilmaine

was rubbed down, bedded, given abundant hay and later water--sure then,

with clear conscience, he could accept the major's "bid," and call again

on his bedward way and toast the major to his Irish heart's and

stomach's content. Full of pluck and fight and enthusiasm, and only

quarter full, he would insist, of rye, was Kennedy as he strode

whistling down the well-remembered road to the flats, for he, with

Captain Truscott's famous troop, had served some months at Frayne before

launching forth to Indian story land in the shadows of the Big Horn

range. Kennedy, in fact, essayed to sing when once out of earshot of the

guard-house, and singing, he strolled on past the fork of the winding

road where he should have turned to his right, and in the fulness of his

heart went striding southward down the slope, past the once familiar

haunt the store, now dark and deserted, past the big house of the post

trader, past the trader's roomy stables and corral, and so wended his

moonlit way along the Rawlins trail, never noting until he had chanted

over half a mile and most of the songs he knew, that Frayne was well

behind him and the rise to the Medicine Bow in front. Then Kennedy

began to laugh and call himself names, and then, as he turned about to

retrace his steps by a short cut over the bottom, he was presently

surprised, but in no wise disconcerted, to find himself face to face

with a painted Sioux. There by the path side, cropping the dewy grass,

was the trained pony. Here, lounging by the trail, the thick black

braids of his hair interlaced with beads, the quill gorget heaving at

his massive throat; the heavy blanket slung negligently, gracefully

about his stalwart form; his nether limbs and feet in embroidered

buckskin, his long-lashed quirt in hand; here stood, almost confronting

him, as fine a specimen of the warrior of the Plains as it had ever been

Trooper Kennedy's lot to see, and see them he had--many a time and oft.



In that incomparable tale, "My Lord the Elephant," the great Mulvaney

comes opportunely upon a bottle of whiskey and a goblet of water. "The

first and second dhrink I didn't taste," said he, "bein' dhry, but the

fourth and fifth took hould, an' I began to think scornful of

elephants." At no time stood Kennedy in awe of a Sioux. At this time he

held him only in contempt.



"How, John," said he, with an Irishman's easy insolence, "Lookin' for a

chance to steal somethin'--is it?" And then Kennedy was both amazed and

enraptured at the prompt reply in the fervent English of the far

frontier.



"Go to hell, you pock-marked son-of-a-scut! Where'd you steal your

whiskey?"



For five seconds Kennedy thought he was dreaming. Then, convinced that

he was awake, an Irishman scorned and insulted, he dashed in to the

attack. Both fists shot out from the brawny shoulders; both missed the

agile dodger; then off went the blanket, and with two lean, red, sinewy

arms the Sioux had "locked his foeman round," and the two were straining

and swaying in a magnificent grapple. At arms' length Pat could easily

have had the best of it, for the Indian never boxes; but, in a bear hug

and a wrestle, all chances favored the Sioux. Cursing and straining,

honors even on both for a while, Connaught and wild Wyoming strove for

the mastery. Whiskey is a wonderful starter but a mighty poor stayer of

a fight. Kennedy loosed his grip from time to time to batter wildly with

his clinched fists at such sections of Sioux anatomy as he could reach;

but, at range so close, his blows lacked both swing and steam, and fell

harmless on sinewy back and lean, muscular flanks. Then he tried a

Galway hitch and trip, but his lithe antagonist knew a trick worth ten

of that. Kennedy tried many a time next day to satisfactorily account

for it, but never with success. He found himself speedily on the broad

of his back, gasping for breath with which to keep up his vocal

defiance, staring up into the glaring, vengeful black eyes of his

furious and triumphant foeman. And then in one sudden, awful moment he

realized that the Indian was reaching for his knife. Another instant it

gleamed aloft in the moonlight, and the poor lad shut his eyes against

the swift and deadly blow. Curses changed to one wordless prayer to

heaven for pity and help. He never saw the glittering blade go spinning

through the air. Vaguely, faintly he heard a stern young voice ordering

"Hold there!" then another, a silvery voice, crying something in a

strange tongue, and was conscious that an unseen power had loosed the

fearful grip on his throat; next, that, obedient to that same

power,--one he dare not question,--the Indian was struggling slowly to

his feet, and then for a few seconds Kennedy soared away into cloudland,

knowing naught of what was going on about him. When he came to again, he

heard a confused murmur of talk about him, and grew dimly aware that his

late antagonist was standing over him, panting still and slightly

swaying, and that an officer, a young athlete, was saying rebukeful

words. Well he knew him, as what trooper of the ----th did

not?--Lieutenant Beverly Field; but, seeing the reopened eyes it was the

Indian again who sought to speak. With uplifted hand he turned from the

rescuer to the rescued.



"You're saved this time, you cur of a Mick," were, expurgated of

unprintable blasphemy, the exact words of the semi-savage lord of the

frontier, "but by the God that made us both I'll get you before another

moon, dash dash you, and when I do I'll cut out your blackguard heart

and eat it." Then bounding on his pony, away he sped at mad gallop,

westward.



For a moment no further word was spoken. The officer presently helped

the soldier to his feet and stayed him, for the latter's legs seemed

wobbly. Field let his salvage get its breath before asking questions.

Yet he was puzzled, for the man's face was strange to him. "Who are

you?" he asked, at length, "and what on earth are you doing out here

this time of night?"



"Kennedy, sir. Captain Truscott's troop, at Fort Beecher. I got in with

despatches an hour ago--"



"What!" cried Field. "Despatches! What did you do--"



"Gave 'em to the major, sir. Beg pardon; they was lookin' for the

adjutant, sir, an' Sergeant Hogan said he wasn't home."



Even in the moonlight the Irishman saw the color fade from the young

officer's face. The hand that stayed him dropped nerveless. With utter

consternation in his big blue eyes, Field stood for a moment, stunned

and silent. Then the need of instant action spurred him. "I must go--at

once," he said. "You are all right now--You can get back? You've been

drinking, haven't you?"



"The major's health, sir--just a sup or two."



"I've no time now to listen to how you came to be out here. I'll see you

by and by." But still the young officer hesitated. One hand grasped the

rein of his horse. He half turned to mount, then turned again.

"Kennedy," he faltered, "you'd have been a dead man if we--if I--hadn't

reached you at that moment."



"I know it, sir," burst in Pat, impetuously. "I'll never forget it--"



"Hush, Kennedy, you must forget--forget that you saw--spoke with

me--forget that you saw or heard--any other soul on earth out here

to-night. Can you promise?"



"I'll cut my tongue out before I ever spake the word that'll harm the

lieutenant, or the--the--or any one he says, sir. But never will I

forget! It ain't in me, sir."



"Let it go at that then. Here, shake hands, Kennedy. Now, good-night!"

Another instant and Field was in saddle and speeding away toward the

post where lights were now dancing about the quartermaster's corral, and

firefly lamps were flitting down the slope toward the stables on the

flats. Ray's men were already up and doing. Slowly, stiffly following,

Pat Kennedy rubbed his aching head, with a hand that shook as never did

his resolution. His bewildered brain was puzzling over a weighty

problem. "The lieutenant's safe all right," he muttered, "but what's

gone wid the squaw that was shoutin' Sioux at that murdherin' buck?"



Meantime all Fort Frayne had seemed to wake to life. No call had sounded

on the trumpet. No voice had been raised, save the invariable call of

the sentries, passing from post to post the half hours of the night; but

the stir at the guard-house, the bustle over at the barracks, the swift

footsteps of sergeants or orderlies on the plank walk or resounding

wooden galleries, speedily roused first one sleeper, then another, and

blinds began to fly open along the second floor fronts, and white-robed

forms to appear at the windows, and inquiring voices, male and female,

hailed the passerby with "What's the matter, sergeant?" and the answer

was all sufficient to rouse the entire garrison.



"Captain Ray's troop ordered out, sir," or "ma'am," as the case might

be. No need to add the well-worn cause of such night excursions--"Indians."



The office was brightly lighted, and there, sleepy-eyed and silent, were

gathered many of the officers about their alert commander. Ray was down

at his stables, passing judgment on the mounts. Only fifty were to go,

the best half hundred in the sorrel troop, for it was to be a forced

march. Neither horse nor man could be taken unless in prime condition,

for a break down on part of either on the way meant delay to the entire

command, or death by torture to the hapless trooper left behind. Small

hope was there of a march made unobserved, for Stabber's band of

Ogalallas had been for weeks encamped within plain view. Less hope was

there of Stabber's holding aloof now that his brethren at the Big Horn

had declared for war. He was a recalcitrant of the first magnitude, a

sub-chief who had never missed the warpath when the Sioux were afield,

or the consolation trip to Washington between times. Where Stabber went

his young men followed unquestioning. It was a marvel that Kennedy had

succeeded in getting through. It meant that the Indian runners, or the

Indian smokes and signals, had not at once so covered the country with

scouts that couriers could by no possibility slip between them. But now

the signal fire was gleaming at Eagle Butte, and an answering blaze had

flared from Stabber's camp. Invisible from Fort Frayne, they had both

been seen by shrewd non-commissioned officers, sent scouting up the

Platte by Major Webb within half an hour of the coming of the alarm.



"Ray will push ahead at once," said Webb, to his silent subordinates.

"You see Colonel Plodder has only two troops up there, and he will need

all his infantry to defend the post. I've wired to Laramie and to

Department Headquarters, and further orders will come before noon. Let

all the cavalry be ready. Then if we push out, Dade, we leave Fort

Frayne to you. They'll hardly venture south of the Platte this time."



"Is--Mr. Field going with Captain Ray?" presently ventured young Ross,

who knew Ray had but one subaltern for duty at the moment, and whose

soul was burning with eagerness to accompany the first troop to take the

field.



"No," said the major, shortly. "Captain Ray needs no more."



"I only asked because Field isn't here, and I thought--maybe--" stumbled

Ross, ingloriously, but the mischief was done.



"Mr. Field is--busy," answered the major, still more shortly, then

reddened to his bushy brows, for at the doorway, in riding dress, and

with a face the color of parchment, stood the officer in question. It

was a moment that threatened panic, but Webb met the crisis with marked

aplomb.



"Oh, Field," he cried, "there's another matter. I want two good men to

slip out at once and see how many of Stabber's people start or have

started. It may be daybreak before they can tell. Sergeant Schreiber

would be a tiptop man for one--and little Duffy. You 'tend to it."



And so, mercifully, he sent the lad away until the crowd should have

dispersed. Only Blake and Ray were with him when, after awhile, Mr.

Field returned and stood silently before them. Well he knew that the

post commander could hardly overlook the absence of his adjutant at such

a time.



"Have you anything to tell me, Field?" was the major's only query, his

tone full of gentle yet grave reproach.



"I was restless. I could not sleep, sir. I went out--purposely."



"You know no horse can be taken from the stables at night except in

presence of the sergeant or corporal of the guard."



"I took none, sir," was the answer, and now both faces were white. "I

rode one of--Mr. Hay's."



For one moment there was no sound but the loud ticking of the big office

clock. Then came the question.



"Who rode the others, Field? The sentries say they heard three."



There was another moment of silence. Ray stepped on tiptoe to the door

as though he wanted not to hear. Blake looked blankly out of the window.

Then the young soldier spoke.



"I--cannot tell you, sir."



For full ten seconds the post commander sat with grave, pallid face,

looking straight into the eyes of his young staff officer. White as his

senior, but with eyes as unflinching, Field returned the gaze. At last

the major's voice was heard again, sad and constrained.



"Field, Captain Ray starts on a forced march at once for Fort Beecher.

I--wish you to go with him."



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